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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28647174">Persimmon Galette</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/zosofi/pseuds/zosofi'>zosofi</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>30歳まで童貞だと魔法使いになれるらしい | 30-sai Made Doutei da to Mahou Tsukai ni Nareru Rashii (TV), 30歳まで童貞だと魔法使いになれるらしい | Cherry Magic! Thirty Years of Virginity Can Make You a Wizard?! (Manga)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adachi bakes, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Fluff, Gay Panic, Kurosawa pines, M/M, Pining, anyway I have no patience for angst ew, but like... funny pining?, lots of gay panic, this is the fic version of a loaf of homemade bread fresh out of the oven</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:21:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,391</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28647174</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/zosofi/pseuds/zosofi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the cream puffs that do it. It’s the cream puffs that break him, he’s pretty sure.</p><p>A half dozen puffs, sitting there on a silpat-covered pan at his stainless steel work counter, still hot from the oven. Steaming, slightly, in the kitchen’s cooled air. And slowly, oh, ever so slowly, deflating.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Adachi Kiyoshi/Kurosawa Yuichi, Tsuge Masato/Wataya Minato</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>74</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>147</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Meet-Cute</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>No beta. 'Scuse the typos.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s the cream puffs that do it. It’s the cream puffs that break him, he’s pretty sure.</p><p>A half dozen puffs, sitting there on a silpat-covered pan at his stainless steel work counter, still hot from the oven. Steaming, slightly, in the kitchen’s cooled air. And slowly, oh, ever so slowly, deflating.</p><p>Adachi’s made hundreds of cream puffs in the last eight years. Cream puffs and tarts and cookies and cakes and pies and doughnuts and all their, uh, accessories. This is what he <em>does</em>. And, yes, of course, he’s messed up before. It comes with the territory. He’s not a genius baker. Apparently, not even a good one, considering he’s got a batch of unsellable pastries in front of him, and he’s fine with that. But today— today as he watches those round little balls of <em>pate a choux</em> deflating, gripping at the edge of his counter with gloved hands cracked from too much washing and too little lotion, his shoulders seem to sag even more than they usually do.</p><p>His posture, he admits, is normally not the best, but today it’s like if he stopped holding himself up, he’d just keep sagging, down, down, until he was a puddle on the cold, tiled floor.</p><p>… But the cream puffs! It’s their fault!</p><p>It’s not just the cream puffs, though, is it? It’s the day. Some vengeful kami-sama has decided to make his 30<sup>th</sup> birthday an exercise in karma. He’d woken up fine, to the usual two texts from okaasan and Tsuge, remembers thinking something stupid like, <em>‘ah, there goes Adachi in his twenties. Here comes Adachi in his thirties,’ </em>and then had tripped on the way to the bathroom.</p><p>So, actually, that had been pretty normal.  </p><p>The thirty-minute commute, from his apartment to <em>Toya-Pan, </em>had been strangely loud, though. Even in the early morning, way before the usual crush of office workers getting shoved into jam-packed train cars by preternaturally calm station attendants, it was loud. Discordant. Like too many people were talking at once, but in a low, constant thrum. He’d had a headache by the time he got off at Shimokitazawa station.</p><p>He still has a headache, truthfully.</p><p>The onigiri guy he usually got his lunch from hadn’t been there when he’d walked past. The ground where his truck was usually parked looked lonely, a lighter grey than the dirtied, weathered cobblestone surrounding it.</p><p>Then there was the over-proofed dough that Fujisaki-san had been staring at when he’d finally made his way into <em>Toya-Pan</em>’s kitchen, hands on her hips and an uncharacteristically feral expression on her face. There was the cherry compote that splattered across his white baker’s jacket as he’d attempted to construct the fruit tarts. The chocolate that didn’t want to temper. The scale that decided, today, to stop working. The orders of condensed milk and eggs that had shown up late.</p><p>But the cream puffs. The cream puffs are what do it. The cream puffs are what force him to admit defeat.</p><p>Adachi lets out a sound. Something between a groan and a sigh, and fumbles until he’s managed to plop down, hard, on the stool he keeps nearby. He stares at the cream puffs, for a second wondering if, maybe, it was just the angle that was making them look like they were collapsing. But no. In fact, sitting like this he can see his failure all the more clear.</p><p>“<em>Mou ii yo,” </em>Adachi whines, his voice the only sound in the kitchen save for the thrum of the air-con and the whirr of the oven as six loaves of <em>shoku-pan</em> bake. Alone in the kitchen, he maybe whines louder than necessary, maybe draws out the syllables to make himself feel better.</p><p>His head hits the metal counter with a clang, and it would hurt more, probably, if this wasn’t his go-to move after a hard day. Or, a hard four hours. He still has to get through at least another five until he can slink his way to a konbini for some dinner, start the trudge back home. Maybe he could just stay here, with his cheek against the cool metal, staring at a pan of slowly deflating <em>pate a choux</em> for the rest of the day.</p><p>That’s his ideal scenario, at this point.</p><p>“Adachi… san?”</p><p>Adachi flails, because that’s what he does, but also because <em>he knows that voice</em>. Thankfully, his hand just barely swipes the counter, and his stool wobbles only a little as he jumps up to face the kitchen’s entrance. Kurosawa Yuichi, the sales agent for the graphic design firm that handles <em>Toya-Pan </em>packaging, is standing there, looking at him with an expression of… well, Adachi interprets it, generously, as bemusement.</p><p>Adachi, honestly, wishes he looked as good in a suit as Kurosawa does, although where he’d wear it, he has no idea. He’s heard from Urabe — the one who usually deals with sales stuff, so <em>why isn’t he here!? — </em>that Kurosawa is the type to get confessions from people he’s never met. Adachi gets it.</p><p>The man is the definition of an <em>ikemen</em>, but Adachi can’t even dislike him for it because he’s <em>too nice</em>. He’s too <em>perfect.</em> He’s too damned good at everything.</p><p>“Ah, eh,” Adachi says, winces at the sound of his own voice. His hand is starting to hurt, where it swiped against the counter. “Kurosawa-san.”</p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p>Adachi rubs at the back of his neck. Right. Of course embarrassment was going to be a part of today’s menu. Makes sense.</p><p>“Ah, sorry,” he says, gestures towards the cream puffs, “some difficulty with the, uh, the baking.</p><p><em>Cute</em>.</p><p>Adachi blinks. He definitely didn’t see Kurosawa’s lips move.</p><p>“Really?” Kurosawa grins, and Adachi’s not even sure he knows he’s doing it. Then, Kurosawa’s right next to him, leaning down to look, and Adachi fights the need to scuttle backwards. “They look delicious to me. Honestly, even if <em>Toya</em> wasn’t our client, I’d probably come here just for your curry-pan.” </p><p>Kurosawa’s eyes are doing that dimple thing that happens when he’s smiling too hard, and Adachi resists the urge to squint. He’s never done well with compliments, but the curry- pan they make <em>is </em>good.</p><p>“Ma, ne…” Why is Kurosawa back here, anyway? He’s sure the two clerks are in the front of the shop – he can hear them, now, through the open kitchen door, as they help a customer. Adachi’s usually the last in line to deal with outsiders, so Kurosawa should be out there, with them. “They collapsed. The oven was probably too hot, or I boiled the choux too long, or—”</p><p>
  <em>So damned cute. </em>
</p><p>“… can I taste one?” </p><p>“Eh?” Adachi blinks down at the pastries, back up at Kurosawa, remembering pretty clearly him saying something about not liking sweets. “Sure.”</p><p>Kurosawa looks for a bit, then picks, for some reason, the one that’s collapsed the most out of all of them, and bites into it. His eyes go wide. <em>Comically </em>wide, and he does this thing where he points at the half-bitten puff and frantically gives Adachi a thumbs up, still chewing.</p><p>Despite himself, Adachi laughs. “It’s just dough,” he says.  </p><p>
  <em>Ah, why doesn’t he laugh like that all time. </em>
</p><p>“<em>Delicious</em>,” Kurosawa says, pops the rest of the puff in his mouth, then, as if unaware he’s doing it, licks his fingers clean. Adachi’s so caught up in that gesture, for absolutely no reason whatsoever, that when their eyes meet, and he realizes they’re standing close enough that their shoulders touch, he’s surprised. Usually he’s aware, too aware, of when he’s too close to someone. But, also, he’s not imagining it, right? Is Kurosawa a ventriloquist or something? Is he <em>messing </em>with him?</p><p>
  <em>No, wait. He can’t laugh like that all the time. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. </em>
</p><p>Adachi tilts his head, confused. Maybe he slept wrong last night, and this is all in his head. Maybe he’s gone insane. Maybe turning thirty years old without so much as a date has really driven him to hearing voices. He takes a small step back, frowning when something suddenly feels <em>different</em>. More quiet, almost, and he’s not sure why.</p><p>It’s… lonely?</p><p>“Ah,” he says, quickly, “did you need to speak with Urabe? He should be here any minute now, since it’s almost ten.”</p><p>Once Toya-san hit eighty last year, he’d started giving all of them more responsibilities at the shop. Urabe orders the boxes and paper from Kurosawa every month, only because Fujisaki prefers working nights. And, well, because Adachi is… Adachi.</p><p>“Just confirming some design changes for fall and winter.” Kurosawa grins at him. Or, continues to grin at him. He’s been smiling this whole time – Adachi wonders if his cheeks hurt. He also wonders if Kurosawa knows that he keeps leaning closer and closer. “Urabe-san said he’d like to see some of the mock-ups today. I think you’ll really like these.”</p><p>“Nnn,” Adachi says, smiling awkwardly because all he can think is <em>close. A little too close. Bright. A little too bright.</em></p><p>“I’d love to have your opinion as well, when you have time. Maybe you have some ideas about any desserts you’re planning for fall? If I remember correctly, you start baking Halloween themed pastries in a couple of weeks, and— ah.” Kurosawa stops, and Adachi’s a little sad that he does. There’s something… nice about his enthusiasm. “I’m sorry. Too much, huh? You look tired.”</p><p>“No!” Adachi says before he thinks about it, throwing out his hands, weirdly panicked at the way Kurosawa’s face had fallen. “I mean. Uh. I usually don’t talk about this. It’s not too much. I think it’s nice—” Adachi winces, tries a new phrasing— “You really care about your work. It shows.”</p><p>“Oh come on,” Kurosawa leans against the counter, hands in his pockets. “I don’t do anything. The real magic is in that.” He gestures, with his chin, at the croux pastry.  </p><p>“Messed up cream—ah, pastry?” Adachi asks, not understanding. He’s not sure why, despite this weird jab of nervousness in his chest, but talking with Kurosawa feels so… natural.</p><p>If he thinks back, it’s always been weirdly easy to talk to him, at least once Adachi gets past his anxiety. Maybe it’s that, whenever they’ve spoken, brief as they’ve been, Kurosawa never seems to mind the pauses, the weird gestures he can’t help, the tendency he has to reply with a jerky nod instead of a yes or no.</p><p>He’s come to terms with it, although it doesn’t mean a large part of Adachi wishes he wasn’t so… <em>this. </em> </p><p><em>“</em>It’s not messed up! They still taste great, you know? I mean,” Kurosawa glances at him, looks away quickly, his eyes wide and Adachi hears, very clearly… <em>Should I tell him he has flour on his neck, where he rubbed it? No. No. Just stop looking at his neck. That’s dangerous. Pastries</em>. <em>The pastries. He’s staring at me with those eyes, though, and all I want to do is — yabai.  </em>“I <em>mean</em>. Nothing I could ever do would sell your pastries if they weren’t delicious. Not even stamping my face on that cheesecake you make would make it taste like clouds. ”</p><p>Adachi has doubts as he stares at Kurosawa’s face. They’d probably sell out. Fast, too.</p><p>
  <em>Right, joke about it, Kurosawa. Voluntarily look pitiful. That’ll end well. Just stamp, ‘pretty face; empty head’ on your forehead and be done with it, already. </em>
</p><p>It would be rude to sprint to the bathroom to check if there’s flour on his neck. Or splash water on his face. Or… or… or just run away from these weird thoughts he’s somehow projecting onto Kurosawa. Right, it’d be rude? And weird?</p><p>Right?</p><p>“I think you’re kind of amazing, though,” comes out of Adachi’s mouth as he’s thinking through escape plans, and he’s not sure why, but he does know he means it. He can’t quite get himself to look at Kurosawa’s face, so he moves back, pretends to check the <em>shoku-pan </em>in the oven. Again. <em>Again</em> the world gets more quiet.</p><p>This is bad. This is bad, but he keeps going. “I’ve heard from Urabe that you’re the star of your department. I don’t think you’d get there without working hard and being passionate about your job, regardless of what you look like.” The <em>shoku-pan</em>, obviously, isn’t done, so he moves to one of the equipment racks, starts pretending to look for a mixing bowl. “Although, I guess it’s weird saying that as a client, right?”</p><p>When Adachi doesn’t get a response he looks back, and Kurosawa is just… standing there. Watching him. It’s a look Adachi’s never seen before, so he’s not really sure how to describe it, except it’s definitely not an expression that screams ‘controlled; confident; put together.’</p><p>“Ah,” he says, “sorry. I just mean you’re more than your face. Although I do think we’d probably sell more if we stamped it on cheesecakes.”</p><p>Still no response to that (Maybe Kurosawa’s realized he’s not worth the conversation?) so Adachi chooses a bowl at random and places it on the counter, making sure to place himself on the opposite side to get some space, and tries to remember what he was supposed to be doing before Kurosawa had walked in.</p><p>The cream puffs, obviously. The <em>shoku-pan</em>. He’s working on three custom cakes later today, but right now he should probably be starting on some madeleines, maybe some of their brownie cookies, so Urabe can focus on seasonal item designs. Maybe one of these days, Adachi’ll give Urabe one of the designs he tries out, sometimes, when he’s at home and bored on the weekend.</p><p>“Thank you,” Kurosawa says, and Adachi looks to see him standing straight, too straight, opening the briefcase he’d been carrying to take out a clear file. “Really, Adachi-san, thank you.”</p><p>For what? Adachi nods anyway, not sure he wants to go any deeper with that.</p><p>“I actually think I’ll wait for Urabe-san out in front.” Kurosawa gestures with his thumb towards the front of the shop. “You’re probably behind with your work, and I don’t want to bother you any more than I have. I do want you to look over the designs, though. They’re in this file. Ah—” Kurosawa fumbles in his briefcase again, this time brings his business card case out, slides one out and presents it to him over the table— “please contact me about them when you do.”</p><p>You’re not bothering me, Adachi wants to say. But, ah, isn’t he? Or, at least, <em>something </em>is.</p><p>Adachi takes the card two-handed. He’s always been awkward at this, and now his hands are covered in flour and his cards are… well he doesn’t know where his business cards are, actually. Maybe—</p><p>
  <em>Keep it together, Kurosawa. Casual. Don’t come on too strong. You’ve still got the present to give him.</em>
</p><p>…. Eh? Adachi doesn’t even want to think about what repressed part of him <em>that </em>stray thought comes from.</p><p>“Actually…” Kurosawa rifles around in his bag again, and this time pulls out a box, places it, carefully, on top of the counter, next to the mixing bowl Adachi had just put down. It’s… wrapped. Gold paper and red ribbon, obviously professionally done. Adachi, frozen, hopes to all the kamisama that it’s a packaging mock-up, because if it’s what he fears it is, then there is something <em>very weird</em> happening here. “I wanted to give you this as well.”</p><p>“Um.”</p><p>“Ah! It’s nothing. I just remembered on the way here that it’s your birthday. I have a friend who uses one and swears by it, and, ma… I hope you like it.”</p><p>“Oh.” Adachi picks the box up, stares blindly at it. What is <em>happening</em> to him? Why does he feel like crying? “Thanks. Thank you.”</p><p>“Don’t mention it!” Kurosawa laughs, picks up his things, save for the clear file with the mock-ups Adachi has yet to look at, and walks to the door, where he turns back. “Remember to look at those for me, okay? I’d really love a perspective other than Urabe’s, although of course you two should discuss it.”</p><p>And then, like a particularly smiley typhoon, he just kind of… leaves.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Kurosawa has gotten used to this. He has, he’s <em>had to</em>. Yearning is an old friend. He says that, but still, every time he sets foot in <em>Toya- pan</em>, the reunion hits him square in the chest and takes his breath away. If it’s coupled with Adachi smiling though, then he’d more than love to have the breath knocked out of him every day. Hour. Minute.</p><p>Ah, he’s getting poetic again.</p><p>Kurosawa nods a good morning at the two part-timers behind the counter as he walks past, goes to sit in his favorite seat at the bar running the length of the store’s front window. Of the six stools the small bakery affords, this one is his favorite. It’s in the corner, crowded a bit, next to the wicker bins of discounted pastries from the day before. Once in a while, though, the kitchen door swings open, as baked goods are brought out, or one of the workers goes to the back for their break, and he gets a brief glance inside.  </p><p>He doesn’t get to do this often, just sit here. When he’s at <em>Toya-pan</em>, it’s usually to talk about products or issues with work, and it’s usually with Urabe-san, who, while a nice guy, can be brash at times. Kurosawa’s always wondered how it was him who took over the account when Toya-san retired. He’d much rather it’d been Adachi, and not just because it would make it easier to talk to him. Have some sort of relationship, if only between seller and client, rather than the stolen looks, the brief conversations, the <em>pining</em> that’s started to eat at Kurosawa more than usual in the last year. Is it because he’s in his thirties, now, that even this, what he’s doing as he sits here, seems so pitiful?</p><p>Well, maybe “seems” is wrong. More like “is.”</p><p>Kurosawa breathes in deep, breathes out, wishes his heart would stop beating so hard, but then, the smell of bread has become something else to Kurosawa, so he’s not sure anything will really work while he sits here. He’s used to it, though. This feeling. It’s always there, the shadow to the goosebumps that shiver down his spine when Adachi smiles.</p><p>Adachi had smiled at Kurosawa’s present. A real smile; a surprised smile. He’d taken his card, even though he had obviously been uncomfortable with it. In the harsh bright lights of the kitchen, he had furrowed his brow at the clear file Kurosawa had slid his way, like he had no idea why Kurosawa would want his input. On anything.</p><p>It all makes Kurosawa angry. It makes him restless. It makes him happy and sad and and… and all these feelings he’s had <em>time – years – </em>to put a name to. It makes him, well, yearn.</p><p>Sitting in <em>Toya-Pan</em> doesn’t help. This whole place reminds him of something he can’t have, save for brief conversations and quick glances. Kurosawa sees Adachi in the soft, orange lighting, the neatly handwritten labels in front of cheerfully laid out pastries. He sees him in the stacks of <em>shoku-pan</em>, the baskets of baguettes, the collections of croissants, all of them dangerously close to teetering over the edges of their wicker baskets. He sees him in the boxes Kurosawa helped design for the shop. The burgundy to-go bags, the napkins, pastry liners, the glass cups they sell their yearly matcha <em>purin</em> in, all with some little saying and <em>Toya-Pan’s</em> logo.  </p><p>He’s <em>surrounded </em>by reminders of Adachi. Warmth, he’s come to realize. It’s warm in here, even as Autumn closes in. Warm colors; warm food; warm textures. All of it subtle but breathtaking. All of it Adachi.  </p><p>Ah, he’s being poetic again.</p><p>Damn it.</p><p>“Kurosawa!” Urabe-san’s voice drowns out the chime above the bakery’s door, and Kurosawa stands, bows as Urabe straightens his coat, grins his way over. “You’re early!”</p><p>The meeting is an easy one, as most are with Urabe. The designs are some simple color changes; oranges and reds, greens and whites. Simple, understated, and what <em>Toya-Pan </em>has done ever year for the seven years  Kurosawa has had them as a client. They’re finished with that part quick and easy, as usual. It’s the seasonal items that Kurosawa needs to be tactful about.</p><p>“To tell you the truth,” Urabe says, “I haven’t been able to think of anything special for Halloween or Christmas. Maybe we’ll just re-use what we did last year, like the pumpkin cake and the ghost cookies? They sold well. My wife’s family is staying with us right now, and free time is a little tight, so —"</p><p><br/>
“Have you considered asking… someone else to take over?” Kurosawa feels guilty for maybe two seconds. He’s merely… planting a seed. He’s… helping a client. If Urabe follows through, and Adachi accepts, well, then, everyone wins.</p><p>(Especially him, though.)</p><p>“Eh? Maybe Fujisaki would—”</p><p>“I mean Adachi-san,” Kurosawa interrupts. He taps a finger over <em>Toya-Pan’s</em> logo, a chibi-fied version of Toya-san’s winking face and thumbs up. “Adachi drew this a few years back, if I remember correctly?”</p><p>For a moment, Urabe just stares at his finger, like he’s trying to remember something, and then, “You’re right! He draws those on the baker recommendations too!”</p><p>Yes. Kurosawa knows. “I thought so,” he says.</p><p>“He might do it,” Urabe mutters, seemingly talking to himself as he crosses his arms. “He doesn’t have a girlfriend, so it’s not like he’s got things to do on the weekend. And he always turns me down when I tell him I can set him up. Don’t even know what his hobbies are!”</p><p>Kurosawa knows those, too.</p><p>“I’d be happy to work with Adachi if you need custom packaging for special items,” Kurosawa says, since it looks like Urabe’s warm to the idea. “We spoke earlier in the kitchen, and I hope you don’t mind, but I did leave him a copy of the fall changes we just discussed.”</p><p>“Eh? No, sounds great. I mean, he’s a dependable guy, just—” Urabe makes a face, his head tilting back and forth, lips twisting as he has some kind of internal argument with himself — “just a bit timid, you know? It’s easy to take advantage of.”</p><p>“… I see,” Kurosawa says, not agreeing in the slightest. “Well, of course, only if Adachi-san wants to do this. Or if Fujisaki-san is available. We really do love working with all of you on special projects, so if there’s anything I can do to make this work, then please, let me know.”</p><p>“Ah, there the Kurosawa I love. The natural salesman!” Urabe grips at his shoulder, shakes it as he stands, then gestures with his thumb towards the kitchen. “Time to get to work, for me. We’ve got custom orders today that’ve been a <em>pain </em>to prep for.”</p><p>Kurosawa stands, bows. “Of course. Looking forward to hearing from you.”</p><p>Urabe walks back to the kitchen, and Kurosawa hears him greet Adachi as he packs up. He imagines, since he can’t hear any response, that Adachi just nods, keeps working. Maybe he’s mixing more dough, or… or prepping a cake, or constructing one of those French fruit tarts that look too pretty to eat. Honestly, Kurosawa knows little to nothing about baking – it’s cooking he enjoys. But Adachi, when he concentrates, bites his lip, and his eyes go narrow, focused.</p><p>Kurosawa, more than once, has wished that gaze was directed at him.</p><p>But, ah, not today.</p><p>When Kurosawa steps out of <em>Toya-pan</em>, he lets himself breathe in deep. The scent is still strong out here, like bread and sweet things and warmth, but it’s less intense, less likely to wrap around his senses and turn him into an idiot. Kurosawa knows that when he starts the walk back towards the station, passing trendy shop after trendy café after mom-and-pop decades old business, the smell will dissipate, get less and less, and with it, he’ll start to forget.</p><p>For however long until he visits <em>Toya-pan</em> again (or, hey, let’s be honest, at least until he’s <em>reminded</em> of <em>Toya-pan</em> again) he’ll just be… Kurosawa. Dependable. Put-together. Hard-working. Handsome. At the meeting he has with <em>Sendai Motors </em>in an hour, he’ll be charmed as he’s flirted with, and he’ll stay professional. He’ll work hard and they’ll see that he’s not <em>just </em>the pretty face Jisedai Designs sends out to sell products. He’s worth something more than that.</p><p>What had Adachi said, back in the kitchen? That he was passionate about his job. That he <em>was </em>hard-working. That— ugh, he’s fixating again.</p><p>Kurosawa starts walking, and true to his prediction, it gets easier. And soon enough, actually, just as he’s turning on the road that’ll get him to Shimokitazawa station, he’s thinking about the data he’s going to have to compile as soon as he gets back to the office this afternoon. It won’t take long, but it means he’ll have to rush a meeting with Rokkaku. Either that or stay late, which he never en—</p><p>“Kurosawa!”  </p><p>Ah, nevermind. He’s hearing Adachi’s voice now. Great. Onee-san would have a field day with this.</p><p>“Kurosawa! Kurosawa-san!”</p><p>Kurosawa turns, and either his hallucinations have become visual as well, or that’s Adachi, dodging his way through the crowd, making his way towards him. He stands there, unable to think of anything save for the sudden <em>thump </em>of his heart against his chest, until Adachi is a foot away, breathing hard, one hand at his side, the other holding a <em>Toya-Pan</em> bag, gesturing at him to wait a moment.</p><p>Kurosawa nods, maybe a bit more emphatically than necessary. His cheeks feel unnecessarily hot, and the hand holding his bag sweats. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes since he left <em>Toya-Pan</em>. Did he forget something?</p><p>“Sorry, just— let me—” Adachi gets out.</p><p>“Please,” Kurosawa says, “take your time.”</p><p>Stay courteous, Kurosawa thinks. Stay professional. Ignore the frown on Adachi’s face, ignore the slight twitchiness of his hands. What if he didn’t like Kurosawa’s gift? What if he was offended that Kurosawa got him a new thermos? Maybe he doesn’t drink tea anymore? Although Kurosawa swears he saw Adachi’s usual thermos in the kitchen. Maybe he doesn’t—</p><p>“It’s been a weird day,” Adachi says, this time breathing easier. “I keep thinking I’m— ah, sorry. Ah. Eh!?”</p><p>A pair of boys in school uniforms push past, nudging Adachi’s side as they do so. They must hit harder than Kurosawa sees, because Adachi clutches his shoulder like he’s in pain, looks around with his eyes wide, almost… panicked, his face flushed red.</p><p>Ah, of course. He’s not good in crowds. Kurosawa, panicking slightly himself, grabs at Adachi’s shoulder and pushes him until they’re both underneath the awning of a nearby thrift store, tucked between two racks of coats and sweaters.</p><p>“Are you okay?” He asks, remembering the sight of Adachi, collapsed at his work station, pouting at a tray of collapsed pastries. At the time, all he could think was <em>cute</em>, <em>really cute, stupidly cute, </em>but now, he can’t help but wonder if something is wrong. Is Adachi sick? Is there another problem? Is this about what he had mentioned to Urabe? Is this—</p><p>“There’s no problem!” Adachi is either laughing or sobbing. Kurosawa’s not sure which is worse. “Sorry, just a little — weird day. Like I said earlier. Uh, I… these are for you.”</p><p>He opens the bag he’s holding with two hands, and Kurosawa looks down. There’s a six-count pastry box from the shop inside, <em>Toya-pan’s</em> logo winking cheekily up at him as if to confuse him even more. “Eh?”</p><p>At least he’s rewarded with Adachi’s cheeks going a pretty shade of pink. Does he realize, Kurosawa wonders, that when he bites his lip it leaves a mark? “Agh. Oh! These are, the, uh, <em>choux de</em>— I mean the puff pastry. That I messed up. They would’ve been thrown away, so I thought, since you seemed to be okay with them, that you could… take them.”</p><p>Kurosawa’s chest aches. His cheeks feel hot. “Oh,” he says.</p><p>“You don’t like sweets, so, I, uh, added some savory fillings we already had on hand. It’d be weird to just give you plain puff pastry, you know?” Adachi blinks at Kurosawa, looks in the bag. “There’s<em> yakisoba</em> from our <em>yakisoba pan</em>, <em>anko </em>and cream cheese, curry, and, uh, mascarpone. If they taste weird, let me know?”</p><p><em>Breath</em>, Kurosawa, <em>breath. </em>Even the voice in his head is shaky.</p><p>“If you don’t like them, please share them with the office.”  Adachi all but shoves the bag at him, their fingers grazing as Kurosawa reaches out, on instinct, to take it. He only just stops himself from clutching it against his chest like a school girl. Like hell he’s going to share them. These are <em>his</em>. Adachi made them for <em>him</em>. If he could, Kurosawa would preserve them, somehow. Cover them in resin. Put them on a damned pedestal and look at them <em>every day</em>.</p><p>Who the hell is he kidding, thinking he could get over this crush?</p><p>Or, even, that he could <em>forget</em> about that face, those hands, this man, for even a day? One look, one touch, one obvious gesture of kindness from Adachi and now, if challenged, he could probably sprint to Mt.Fuji, a smile on his face the whole way. He should just accept it now; he’s doomed.</p><p>“You’ve got to be kidd — I—I! Have to go! Enjoy the pastries! See you!” Adachi’s voice is strangely squeaky, and Kurosawa is solidly impressed with the speed at which he backs out into the street. Adachi flinches when he hits up against a salary man on the phone, raises a hand in a quick wave to Kurosawa, and then turns and, for lack of a better word, flees.</p><p>Kurosawa, frozen in the shade of the thrift store, bag of customized pastries in one sweaty hand, briefcase in another, heart beating dangerously in his chest, watches him go, and wants.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Problems</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Adachi has a problem.</p><p>No, three problems. Three problems, staring back at him as he sits, slouched, in front of the table he eats his meals at (most days, a bento, maybe sometimes leftovers from the bakery). They’re laid out at haphazard angles on the wooden surface, untouched for two days. Seen, yes; touched, no.</p><p>If he touches them, he’ll have to think about them. He’ll have to… <em>acknowledge </em>that things haven’t been the same since he turned thirty, all of two days ago. He’s aware that sitting here, wringing his hands in his lap as he just stares, is as much an acknowledgement as anything, but — ah. Who cares.</p><p>He has three problems. A clear file; a business card; an artisan tea thermos, the color of the summer ocean, still cradled, gingerly, inside the box he unwrapped in a daze back at work.</p><p>All of them, problems.  All of them, seemingly, no longer avoidable. He has to acknowledge them, because Urabe cornered him in the kitchen today, as he was constructing a swiss roll – holding his breath as he rolled the cake and buttercream into shape around a line of roasted and cooled chestnuts, careful so it wouldn’t crack— and asked about his progress on the seasonal items for Halloween.</p><p>The seasonal items he had told Adachi, two days prior, that he was in charge of this year.</p><p>On the same day that Adachi, thirty years old and the butt of some grand cosmic joke, started hearing the thoughts of those around him.</p><p><em>This’ll give me more time to deal with the in-laws</em>, Urabe had thought two days ago as he had clapped Adachi on the shoulder.</p><p><em>Adachi-san should get more sleep, perhaps invest in a nice skin cream</em>. <em>He has a kind smile.</em> Nakamoto-san, one of their part-time clerks, had decided as he helped her arrange matcha-chocolate covered madeleines in their display case. He still has no idea what a kind smile looks like, even though he’s tried to recreate it, multiple times, in the mirror over his bathroom sink.</p><p><em>Who the hell am I kidding, thinking I could get over this crush?</em> Kurosawa-san had declared, after Adachi had run after him with the choux pastries he had tried to salvage as some sort of, what? An offering? To Kurosawa? At the time, perhaps, he had felt bad for projecting thoughts in his own head. At the time, he had wondered if he was so lonely that he was grasping onto the first scrap of kindness someone had shown him and turning it into something bigger. <em>At the time</em>, Adachi had thought there was no way that someone like Kurosawa could ever think of him as more than just… background noise.</p><p>And then, hours later, as he was forming large balls of cookie dough and rolling them in crushed pistachios, enthusiastically refusing to think about that morning’s <em>events</em>, he was cruelly pulled out of his delusions. It was Urabe, of all people, joking about an urban legend. A simple sentence that, even now, two days later, still rings in Adachi’s head. He whispers it aloud, right now, in a crude imitation of Urabe’s drawl: “Oy, Adachi, you know what they say about thirty-year-olds who haven’t done it, right? Do you read minds, now? Should I call you <em>mahoutsukai-sama?!”</em></p><p>There must be, Adachi thinks, for about the 300<sup>th</sup> time, millions of mind-readers out there. Not having had sex by thirty isn’t <em>that </em>big of a deal.</p><p>Is it?</p><p>No. No it’s not.</p><p>But!</p><p>But that doesn’t solve any problems. Not for him. Not when they’re  right here, staring him in the face, lit, as if on display in a museum, by his ceiling light.</p><p>The clear file is a problem because it means he has to work with Kurosawa. The business card is a problem because it means he has no excuses <em>not to contact Kurosawa</em>. The thermos is a problem because it’s evidence – as if he needed any more evidence than the man’s <em>thoughts</em> – that Kurosawa knows him. Knows him enough to know he likes to keep his drinks warm the whole day to combat the cold of the kitchen. And if Kurosawa knows him, it means he’s been watching him, and, and, and—</p><p>Adachi realizes he’s gripping at his hair, jumps to his feet with a noise. He’d called it a growl of frustration, but it’s too high-pitched, too whiny. He’s not scared of the work. He’s… honestly he’s excited about that part. Perhaps if he were more brave, he would’ve done this before. He would’ve asked to be included, instead of told. That Urabe is the one responsible for this is both… predictable and unexpected, although that doesn’t quite make sense to even Adachi. Unexpectedly predictable, perhaps?</p><p>Maybe that’s just, in general, a great way to describe Urabe, who can bully him about his lack of sex life one minute, and nudge him with his elbow the next to tell him his tarte tartins look, quote, way too amazing, stop making the rest of us look bad, <em>Adachi</em>.</p><p>Adachi has ideas. He has notebooks of ideas. He has recipes that he’s tested. He has drawings that, on long Friday nights, when the apartment is too quiet even with the TV on in the background, he’s sketched out with a secret kind of enthusiasm. Adachi wants this opportunity. The problems – no, fine, the <em>problem </em>inherent to this is that to do this the appropriate way, he’s going to have to, at some point, work with Kurosawa.</p><p>Kurosawa, who likes him.</p><p>No, no that’s a disservice to Kurosawa. Makes it sound like they’re high schoolers and Kurosawa has a confession letter hidden in his pants pocket (although, Adachi concedes, still standing, frozen in place, staring down at the thermos on his table, maybe that’s not so far-fetched?).</p><p>Kurosawa, who… has a crush on him? Still no. Even though those are the words Kurosawa himself used, his thoughts had sounded self-deprecating. Adachi can’t quite bring himself to agree.</p><p>Kurosawa, who— who <em>sees </em>him. Who, unbeknownst to Adachi (damn it, how many times has Tsuge, has okaa-san, told him to pay more attention to his surroundings?), has watched him. Seen him in all his clumsy, admittedly closed off glory and thought, multiple times in one day, <em>cute</em>?!</p><p>Adachi feels his face go hot. A gargled off whine comes out of his throat, and he rubs at tired eyes with hands he only now realizes are in fists. It’s been two days of this. He’s not crazy. If he is, then how can he explain all of the other thoughts he’s heard? The mundane things that coincide with some action Kurosawa <em>couldn’t </em>have known about. Like Urabe muttering about wash-up duty and then making one of the part-timers do it, or Fujisaki eyeing the display case, playing some mental game of Tetris, and then asking him if it was okay if she re-arranged some things.</p><p>He <em>knows </em>he’s not crazy. But if he <em>knows </em>he’s not crazy, than that means, of course, that Kurosawa’s feelings are <em>real</em>, and not some projection of his own — Adachi stops short, grimacing. A projection of his own what? His own wants? His own desires? His own shortcomings?</p><p>That’s, see. <em>That’s </em>the problem. Because Adachi doesn’t know what to <em>do</em>. No one’s ever <em>seen </em>him before. Not in that way. Not that’s he’s known about. And since no one has ever seen him before, he’s been put in the convenient position of never having to really <em>see </em>anyone else. Not really. And as it is, he’s at a standstill. All he wants to do is avoid, avoid, avoid.</p><p>He can’t even excuse himself and say he’s in shock. That numb feeling went away yesterday, when he had come home and collapsed on his bed, after a thirty-five minute commute on a packed train car, wound tight from all the errant, loud, at times <em>uncomfortable </em>thinking he’d had to endure.</p><p>Adachi sighs, glances down, at the three items on the low table. He’s not in shock. He can hear what people are thinking, and he’s a —</p><p>“Coward,” he grunts, and bends down to grab his phone.</p><hr/><p>Kurosawa only barely just hears his phone ding over the cacophony of the izakaya. It’s because there’s a blip in conversation at the table – a lull between the boss drunkenly congratulating Rokkaku, yet again, on his new client, and Mori ordering another plate of karaage — that he’s able to even think about pulling it out of his pocket.</p><p>And then, of course, the izakaya disappears, his vision tunneling in on the notification, the beer he just swallowed suddenly stuck in his throat. Somehow, he makes his excuses. Something about air and needing it, and then he’s outside, crouched behind a potted plant and a neon sign proclaiming 300 yen beers near the entrance, ignoring the drunks in suits weaving their way home down the narrow alley.</p><p><strong>[Unknown Number]:</strong> This is Adachi Kiyoshi, from <em>Toya-Pan</em>. You gave me your business card the other day. I’ve been put in charge of working on a few seasonal pastries for Fall and Winter. Looking forward to working with you on custom packaging, if required.</p><p>Quickly, before he forgets (like he’d <em>forget)</em>, Kurosawa saves the number in his address book as “Adachi-san.”</p><p>The text is all professional formality, but Kurosawa can’t help but imagine Adachi bending over his phone, frowning slightly as he thinks of the right words, his long fingers tapping out the message. Kurosawa’s seen that look before, those fingers. Of course he would text, over calling. Kurosawa grins, hides it behind a neatly pressed sleeve as he checks the time on his watch. Not too late to text back.</p><p><strong>[Kurosawa-san]:</strong> Looking forward to it, Adachi-san.</p><p>(Once, during some product meeting in <em>Toya-pan’s </em>kitchen, Kurosawa had been so enamored watching Adachi, over on the other work-table, as he had assembled two dozen macarons, his fingers sure, his expression focused, that he had missed about half of what Urabe had told him.)</p><p><strong>[Kurosawa-san]:</strong> Would you like to meet next week to discuss designs?</p><p>Don’t be too enthusiastic, Kurosawa tells himself, don’t scare him off. <em>Stay calm. </em></p><p>Except then three little bubbles pop up to tell him Adachi’s responding, and his heart does a little pitter-patter in his chest. Does he mind, that he’s acting like a teenage boy writing a confession? Kurosawa pauses, looking away from the screen, staring blankly at an energy drink vending machine a little ways off, to think about that for a moment.</p><p>Not particularly, is the conclusion he comes up with. And then he waits, eyes on those three cheeky little bubbles, as Adachi types, and then deletes, and then types, and then the bubbles disappear and Kurosawa wonders if there’s something wrong with his service, until —</p><p><strong>[Adachi-san]:</strong> Yes.</p><p>Kurosawa snorts out a laugh, thinks <em>stupidly cute, </em>and accidentally locks eyes with a cook on his smoke break across the street. The ojisan balks, looks behind him, his cheeks turning red as Kurosawa tries to school his expression into one <em>less </em>dopey. It’s not easy.</p><p><strong>[Kurosawa-san]:</strong> Great!</p><p><strong>[Kurosawa-san]:</strong> Really excited to be working with you. Even if you don’t need anything special, packaging wise, I’d love to see what you’re thinking of.</p><p>Too much? Kurosawa makes a face. Maybe it’s a bad move to tell Adachi that he doesn’t necessarily <em>need </em>new packaging or graphic design work for special items. Kurosawa <em>wants </em>him to use new packaging, because it means they, finally, have an excuse to have a damned <em>conversation</em>. He starts typing again.</p><p>(Another time, when Toya-san was still head baker – maybe four years ago?--Kurosawa had stopped by before work to do a quality check on their products, and he’d found Adachi asleep at one of the tables. His head was pillowed on his arms, his white cap pulled down over his eyes, but all Kurosawa could focus on was the small, barely there smile on his lips. <em>Long prep night</em>, Toya-san had said, walking up behind him. <em>Letting him sleep a bit before I send him home.)</em></p><p><strong>[Kurosawa-san]:</strong> This is, of course, dependent on your schedule, but I’d love to drop by the bakery next Monday to chat about whatever you’re thinking.  </p><p>There. An invitation; hard to turn down a direct invitation. But it’s professional. Courteous. Plus, Monday’s in four days. That’s not too far away. Adachi’s answer is quicker, this time.</p><p><strong>[Adachi-san]:</strong> I’ll ask Urabe-san and Fujisaki-san if Monday works for a meeting.</p><p>(Last year, Kurosawa almost missed Adachi sitting outside, in front of the bakery, eating a bento that had obviously come from the conbini down the road a ways. He had waved, made some inane comment about it looking good, all the while thinking <em>I can cook better than that. Can I cook for you?) </em></p><p><strong>[Kurosawa-san]:</strong> Let me know. My schedule is open all day, so whenever you’d like to meet. Looking forward to it!</p><p><strong>[Adachi-san]:</strong> I will.</p><p>Kurosawa squints, tilts his head and smiles at the response, then glances at the izakaya’s entrance to make sure none of his co-workers are looking for him. It’s not likely – at this point, most of them are drunk, asleep, or have surreptitiously gone home – but just in case. He waits a few moments to see if Adachi texts anything else.</p><p>He doesn’t. Kurosawa wants more.</p><hr/><p>It’s ten at night, and Adachi is in bed, <em>not </em>sleeping, and he <em>should </em>be sleeping, when his phone chirps. He takes a second to think about how this is the first time that’s actually happened – getting a text this late and not knowing why—and then rolls over to grab his phone.</p><p>It’s been thirty minutes since he texted Kurosawa in some desperate attempt to stop berating himself, stop thinking about the as-of-yet untouched problems on his table and <em>get some </em>sleep. He’s still nervous about that exchange. Still trying to figure out if he came off as too stiff. If it seemed like he <em>knew </em>something.  </p><p>Anyway, it bodes ill for the <em>quality </em>of his sleep that it’s Kurosawa texting him. Again.</p><p>He has to wake up in five hours for work, and he can’t stop worrying about what to <em>do</em>. What do you do when someone likes you? He’s never had this problem before, and it’s only now, as he gulps at his phone screen, that he’s grateful for that.</p><p>Agh.</p><p><strong>[Kurosawa-san]:</strong> Before I forget. Those cream puffs were amazing! I ate all of them.</p><p><strong>[Kurosawa-san]:</strong> Are they even called cream puffs anymore, when they’re savory? How about a yaki-puff? Could be a new thing. A curry-puff?</p><p>Yaki-puff? Why does that make Adachi snort out a laugh? How can he <em>laugh</em> at a time like this!? His head’s a mess.</p><p><strong>[Adachi-san]:</strong> Glad you liked them.</p><p>And then, something stuck in his throat (probably air from laughing like an idiot), he adds;</p><p><strong>[Adachi-san]:</strong> Thank you for the thermos. I’ll definitely use it.</p><p>How is he as awkward over text as he is in real life? <em>How?! </em>He manages with Tsuge just fine. Then again, he’s known Tsuge for, what, ten years now? <em>Then again</em>, he’s known Kurosawa for seven.</p><p>Or, has he? Has he ever taken the time to know him? See him as anything other than what Adachi assumed he was? A salesman. Not even a colleague. A… a semi-colleague. An occasional blip on his radar. One that he labelled as “too cool to want anything to do with me” while he was kneading dough or baking bread or whatever he had been doing as Kurosawa had been <em>watching </em>him. </p><p>He feels… guilty. He feels… cheated. He feels… like a bad person. That last one, he admits, is more to do with <em>how </em>he knows Kurosawa likes him (watches him? Sees him? <em>Knows </em>him?!) than anything else. He can’t help but think of how he would feel if someone read his mind with a mere touch.</p><p>He would feel violated. Embarrassed. Angry.</p><p>And now, it’s been two days, and all he’s done is wrap himself in ever more complicated knots that resemble, loosely, these two questions: What does he do about Kurosawa? And how does he stop reading minds? </p><p>He completely blanks on answering either, as has been the case since <em>that day</em>, and then his phone chirps.</p><p><strong>[Kurosawa]:</strong> Happy to hear it!</p><p>And then nothing.</p><p>He sleeps for three hours, and arrives at work the next morning in neither a good mood nor a bad one. It’s more like he’s in a daze. Exhaustion – <em>emotional</em> exhaustion — so new to him that he <em>tells </em>Fujisaki, and then Urabe, that he’s meeting with Kurosawa on Monday, rather than asks them. He gets through that day <em>somehow</em>, the work of the kitchen punched and rolled and kneaded into his hands through a decade of repetition.</p><p>That night, heart still racing from a commute spent panicking, an unwilling witness to the <em>honne </em>of at least fifty other people, he texts Kurosawa to confirm their meeting. On the train, he remembers as he types, there was a college student skipping class; a salary man wondering how to impress his mistress in bed; a newlywed cursing out her mother-in-law; a banker laughing at a man he turned down for a loan. There were, he remembers, a million, a <em>billion</em>, random little thoughts and complaints. Private jokes and judgements that he had tried not to react to, but had failed, just as he had failed that day, running after Kurosawa, to think he had been going insane.</p><p><em>What’s this guys problem? </em>An ojisan had thought, narrowing his eyes at Adachi after the train’s abrupt stop had pushed them into one another. <em>Needs to sleep more, stare less. </em></p><p>He hates it. He <em>hates </em>it, that their faces are banal, blank even. Hates that he’s hearing (feeling? Sensing?), first hand, that there really is a difference between <em>honne </em>and <em>tatemae</em>.</p><p>He’s frustrated, and his phone chirps.</p><p><strong>[Kurosawa]:</strong> Can’t wait! See you on Monday!</p><p>“Aaaagggh!” Adachi scrubs at his hair, collapses, face down, on his bed, not even bothering to take off his jacket. He needs help. He needs help, or he needs to quit his job, move to the countryside where trains aren’t packed and people aren’t… there. Just, in general. That would probably be for the best. It’s either become a hermit in the countryside or a hikikomori in Tokyo. He needs — Adachi stops, blinks, rears up and opens his texts.</p><p>“Tsuge,” he says.</p><hr/><p>At the feel of a hand on his shoulder, Kurosawa drops his phone, startled, onto his desk. A few heads pop up, over their desk partitions at the noise. A gaggle of prairie dogs, he thinks, on the look-out for danger in the form of enraged superiors. He looks up, at Rokkaku’s enthusiastic smile, and then down, at his phone screen, where he’s been re-reading Adachi’s text (<em>Monday’s great for a meeting. Are you free around 2pm?) </em>for the fifth time.</p><p>“Rokkaku,” Kurosawa sighs, managing to lock his phone before Rokkaku grabs it.</p><p>“Sorry, I was… speaking with a client.”</p><p>Technically true.</p><p>“Senpai,” Rokkaku says, smiling, “you’re always so dedicated!”</p><p>Ahuh. Dedication. That’s what this is. Dedication to work. It’s definitely that, and not an infatuation for a baker with clear, dark eyes and constant bedhead. And also, that mole, the one right above his lip, the one that Kurosawa’s maybe thought about kissing more than once.</p><p>Sure. Yes. Dedication.</p><p>“Senpai?”</p><p>Kurosawa smiles through a wince, because he can’t help but like Rokkaku, even at his most enthusiastic. “Did you need something?”</p><p>“Yes! I’m actually working on the Minamoto design, and I was wondering if you could look over some of my proposals!” Rokkaku grins. “I know you’re in charge of the two bakeries we still do.”</p><p>Kurosawa stands, slides his phone in the back pocket of his pants. He has a few minutes. “Of course,” he says, tilts so he can get a better look at the proposal Rokkaku has opened. “What’d you want to ask?</p><p>Answering all of Rokkaku’s questions takes the better part of the hour, which is fine, but he can’t help but keep subtly glancing at his phone as he does so. He takes it out, checks it, puts it back in his pocket, takes it out again, checks it, pockets it…</p><p>Kurosawa knows, without a doubt, that there’s little to no chance Adachi is going to text him again. Although, even if he did, it he would be professional and distant, his words arduously edited, just like all of the texts he’s sent. What does it say about Kurosawa that he finds that adorable? That it makes him want, all the more, to see unedited Adachi.</p><p>He wants to see Adachi smile, wants to see him laugh. Wants to talk <em>with </em>him about what he likes instead of gleaning, from stolen glances and carefully worded questions to his colleagues, what he likes. He wants to know what high school he went to, if he fell in love, wants to know what he wears on the weekends, what he—</p><p>Kurosawa sighs, listening to Rokkaku practice the sales pitch he wants to make about the graphic design department’s work. He wants to know what Adachi looks like when he wakes up, first thing in the morning.</p><p>… that’s asking for a lot. That’s asking for the impossible, isn’t it? If he’s asking for that, Kurosawa might as well want to know what he looks like when he goes to sleep, when his —Kurosawa swallows past a throat suddenly gone dry — when his skin is flushed and warm to the touch, and his lips are swollen from kissing. And that <em>mole</em>.</p><p>Okay, yes, he does want to know that. He wants to know all about that. Very much. The impossible part, the part that turns all this into some pitiful nightmare, is that there is no chance of Adachi ever reciprocating enough <em>in that way</em> for Kurosawa to ever get what he wants.</p><p>Well – Kurosawa narrows his eyes, points out a typo that Rokkaku hasn’t seen yet – well, wait. He doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know that because he’s never <em>tried, </em>has he? He’s always treated Adachi as some unsurmountable obstacle. Something to be seen, not touched; admired, not known. And… and isn’t there something wrong with that?</p><p>Isn’t he treating Adachi like a doll, and not a person?</p><p>Isn’t it better, he wonders, to take a step closer? To slowly see if he can at least get to <em>know </em>Adachi, so he can treat him as more than what he is in Kurosawa’s head? He won’t ask for the world – he won’t ask for Adachi to reciprocate any of this – but… but it’s been seven years. And if Kurosawa doesn’t do this now, doesn’t do this when there’s a chance, a <em>slim </em>chance, of them being more than what they are, then he’s one hundred percent certain he’ll just end up loving Adachi from afar for another seven.</p><hr/><p>Tsuge meets him in front of the conbini nearest Adachi’s apartment on Sunday, sipping at a coffee, bag of what Adachi suspects is dinner and snacks for the night already in hand. He keeps pushing his glasses up his nose, the expression on his face a familiar one to Adachi. It means he’d rather be anywhere but here.</p><p>Or, no. Rather, it means he wants to be at his desk, writing. Or, as Tsuge had once described it, staring at a blank word document until inspiration hits. It also means Adachi has a small window to get Tsuge’s attention before he makes his excuses and bolts. Literally bolts. Adachi’s experienced it on at least five occasions. Honestly, though, he kind of understands the pull of just up and sprinting away. He can’t help but be extremely envious of it.</p><p>“Happy Birthday. They didn’t have mayo, so I got ume,” Tsuge greets, ruffles through his bag, pulls out an onigiri and a hot can of cocoa, and hands them to Adachi. “Your mom texted me. She sent you some sweaters she knitted. I’m supposed to encourage you, subtly, to be home to sign for a package tonight between 6 and 7 pm.”</p><p>Adachi grins as he takes the offerings, his fingers grazing Tsuge’s wrist. <em>But then, if I have them like each other as children, would it even make sense for them to hate each other as adults? Wouldn’t that be more like… friends to strangers to enemies to friends to lovers? Wait, of course it would make sense. That’s the plot of every damned romance book in the world, Tsuge. </em>Try <em>to be original, for once. </em></p><p>“… How’s writing?” Adachi asks, snorting out a laugh despite himself. He follows Tsuge to sit on one of the concrete benches in front of a nearby planter, pulls the tab on his drink. He’s glad they didn’t meet at the izakaya they usually go to – one, it’s ten in the morning, and two, it’s blessedly quiet out here, in comparison. The mental drone of the pedestrians walking past is nothing compared to the contained chaos of an establishment that offers cheap beer and fried food at will.</p><p>Maybe, normally, he’d have agreed to the izakaya. But things are different. He’s thirty and some days old. And he has a problem. Not the… the <em>Kurosawa </em>problems. The one’s on his table back at home. He means the head problem. The mind-reading problem. The <em>over-arching goddamned problem</em>. Anyway, the thing about this problem is that he’s not quite sure of the rules yet, but he’s getting familiar.</p><p>The thoughts he hears by touch are clear and succinct. Snippets into a mind that he’d really rather not have. But sometimes, it doesn’t take touch for him to get a sense – vague and blurry, like squinting your eyes to see some lost detail in the distance on a hazy afternoon – of a discordant buzzing. A feeling of <em>tiredness</em>, or <em>nervousness</em>, or <em>expectation</em>. Like it’s cicada season. Except the cicadas screaming in his ears are thoughts, not bugs looking for sex.</p><p>Those, rather than these insights he’s getting from the people he touches, are the more unpleasant aspect of this whole thing. They’re everywhere, and he’s never sure if they’re from him – if <em>he’s </em>the one feeling, thinking, these things – or not. And he’s always, especially after being stuck in a closed space with a large mass of people, tired and overwhelmed and due for a headache at some point within the next two hours.</p><p>So, izakayas; obviously not a good place to be, anymore.</p><p>He thought his dislike of crowded space was bad <em>before </em>this. Now it’s practically bordering on agoraphobia. Not a particularly pleasant fear to have while living in Tokyo.</p><p>“It’s going well,” Tsuge lies, tearing open the package to an anpan. He looks at it, then at Adachi. “Yours are better, but since it’s your day off…”</p><p>“I’ll bring you some next time,” Adachi says, taking a sip of hot cocoa. He has no idea why Tsuge chose this drink, of all of them, but… ma, ne, it’s good. Sweet and comforting on his tongue. Might be a weird combination with the ume, though. Maybe he’ll just save that for later.</p><p>“You sounded panicked on the phone,” Tsuge says, then grins through a mouthful of sweet bean and bread. “Actually, you sounded exactly like that time you had a crush on that girl in college. What was her name? The really popular one majoring in agriculture? Wanted to start her own farm in Iwate?”</p><p>“Shut up,” Adachi says, because he can. It’s a pleasant day, today. Sun’s up. The sky is blue and the temperature is just how Adachi likes it. Not the frigid cold of the winters up north; not the sweaty, inescapable heat of the summers in Tokyo. There’s a park just up the road, so the majority of people walking past are families with young kids, a few young couples on a date. It’s nice.</p><p>“So?” Tsuge pushes, after a few minutes of them sitting. “You wouldn’t have called me if you didn’t need something.”</p><p>Okay, well, it sounds harsh that way. Although Adachi can’t say it’s not exactly true. He clears his throat. “So,” he says, “uh.”</p><p>Tsuge sips at his coffee, waits for Adachi to finish, the only sign he’s waiting his slightly raised eyebrows.</p><p>“You write romance novels,” Adachi starts.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“So.” He winces. “I need some advice.”</p><p>Tsuge pauses, his expression unreadable for a bit. “If I can help,” he finally says.</p><p>Adachi sets his drink on the bench, grips at his bouncing leg. “What do you do,” he starts, “when you figure out that someone… likes you?”</p><p>Tsuge makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “How’d you find out?”</p><p>No, Adachi isn’t getting into that. Tsuge – no, <em>anyone</em>, would say he’s crazy. They would focus on <em>that</em> and then he would never get any actual advice about the more pressing issue here. “I didn’t say it’s about me.”</p><p>Tsuge just looks at him, and yeah, okay, sure.</p><p>“So,” he tries again, “what would you do? What would your characters do?”</p><p>Maybe he should’ve waited, to have this talk with Tsuge. Until… until when? Until he knows more about Kurosawa? Until he’s panicked at another accidental touch, another accidentally overhead thought that he has <em>no idea </em>what to do with?! That’s the whole <em>point! </em>He doesn’t know anything about Kurosawa, but Kurosawa knows <em>a lot</em> about him. He’s never had to deal with interacting with someone who thinks about him that way.</p><p>Honestly, he’s lost. And maybe this is a weird thing to focus on, maybe he should’ve just… met with him on Monday and <em>confirmed </em>that Kurosawa thought of him that way, lived through the panic and treated it as a learning experience, but — but he feels better being… prepared. Now that he knows, it’s as if he <em>needs </em>to be prepared.</p><p>“Well, the protagonist in this book might run away,” Tsuge ponders, and damn it, that’s not what Adachi meant. “The side character in my last book killed the person who was in love with them. Most would probably have some big dramatic argument with them and bring up decades worth of history—”</p><p>“That’s not what I meant,” Adachi says, laughing. “I meant—”</p><p>“— But those are fictional characters,” Tsuge says, glancing over at Adachi, “and this is real life. So I would say, probably, if you’re asking for advice… you’re focusing on the wrong person.”</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>“Liking someone,” Tsuge says it like it’s a foreign concept, “is personal.”</p><p>“I <em>know</em>, Tsuge,” Adachi groans out, head in his hands. “What does that <em>mean?” </em></p><p>“Well, that you don’t have to do anything,” Tsuge says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, when it’s <em>not, </em>when—</p><p>“I don’t…” Adachi looks at Tsuge, really looks at him, squinting his eyes like that’ll make him make more sense. Maybe if he just patted Tsuge’s shoulder, real casual, he could understand this better. Or offer him a sip of his drink, ‘accidentally’ brush Tsuge’s hand with his. Or, he thinks desperately, push his sneaker against Tsuge’s…. loafers. Why is he wearing loafers.</p><p>“Ne, Adachi,” Tsuge says, sounding fed up, which, yeah, Adachi too, “do you like this girl?”</p><p>“It’s a… guy,” Adachi says, without realizing it, because he’s too caught up in trying to re-construct the decision making process that went into wearing jogger pants, cat-patterned socks, and loafers. “Ah, no, I mean—</p><p>“Okay, do you like this guy?” Tsuge either doesn’t catch that or doesn’t care. This is why they’re friends, probably. Why they’ve been friends for ten years even when Adachi hasn’t spoken to anyone else from university since graduation.</p><p>“I don’t know,” Adachi says, honestly surprised that the answer he gives isn’t, automatically, a no. “I… I don’t know.”</p><p>“You seem troubled about this, which I get – honestly, love seems like it’s a pain in the ass— but the only thing you’re in control of are <em>your </em>feelings. So,” Tsuge says the rest with a mouth full of bread, “you doing anything—or rather, what you do—is dependent on whether you like this guy or not. So maybe figure that out first.”</p><p>“Oh,” Adachi says.</p><p>“Or,” Tsuge says, “ and here’s the all-around better option; You could get a cat.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I see your feel-good jdrama about love and self-acceptance and I RAISE YOU that same show except with more carbs.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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